


Bourbon Santos, Medium Dark

by orchid314



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018 [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Gen, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/pseuds/orchid314
Summary: Lucy begins her first day of service at 221B Baker Street.





	Bourbon Santos, Medium Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July Writing Prompts. Prompt 2: [A picture prompt](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1755187.html).

"Here, my dear," Mrs Hudson said, beckoning to Lucy, who was beginning her service that very day. "The Doctor would like a pot of coffee. I'll show you the steps for making it. Now, I don't expect you to learn it all at once, of course. It takes some time to get it exactly right. But you must pay attention, do you hear? Hand me that jar, there's a good girl."

Lucy saw the terracotta jar with the porcelain lid on the shelf where Mrs Hudson had pointed. She lifted it from its perch and, with both hands, carried it to her. The jar had a label pasted on it, with the curious words "Bourbon Santos, Medium Dark" written in a spindly hand.

"This is about enough for one pot of coffee," said Mrs Hudson as she opened the jar and poured a quantity of beans onto a plate. A wonderful aroma issued forth from the jar, dark and warm. Mrs Hudson looked at her. "Have you ever had coffee before, my dear?" 

"No, m'am. My family only ever drink tea."

"As do I, my dear. But the Doctor prefers coffee when he's writing. Yes, that looks about right. Now to grind the beans," and she pulled towards her a coffee mill from its spot near the stove. 

Lucy observed every detail of Mrs Hudson at her work. Watching others came easily to her. Her large, clear eyes took in all that was new to a girl from the country, barely turned seventeen. She had come to London through the kindness of Mrs Turner, Mrs Hudson's sister, who lived in the same Dorset village as the Thomas family. Lucy's father had died a little over a year ago and Mrs Thomas, singularly ineligible for remarriage with eight children to care for, had relied on a brother to see her through her immediate financial difficulties. But even that steadfast help had begun to fade, and the older Thomas children found themselves venturing far afield to secure employment.

Mrs Hudson glanced at her, approving. "You're a quiet one, aren't you? That will serve you in good stead here. Mr Holmes certainly doesn't tolerate people in his house who rattle on or gossip about the clients who come and go. Now Dr Watson. He's a bit more understanding about that sort of thing. He likes to know how a person is doing, and inquires after their family, and wants to see how they are feeling when they've come down with an ailment. But it doesn't mean that we should make ourselves familiar, you understand."

"Yes, m'am." 

"So you pour in the beans like so. Not all at once, mind. Just enough to fill it almost to the top." The beans rattled into the little upper chamber of the mill. Mrs Hudson closed it shut and began to turn the crank. Lucy heard the beans crunch inside and more of the warm, dark scent filled the kitchen.

She could see how Mrs Hudson laboured under the effort. "If you don't mind, m'am, may I help with that?"

"Oh, bless you, my dear. Yes, I daresay with your height you'll be able to get a greater purchase on it." 

Soon Lucy had finished grinding the coffee, and a coal-black liquid was bubbling away inside the pot on the stove.

"I'll just put this tray together while you attend to the pot. Dr Watson says he doesn't like anything with his coffee, but I've never seen him resist a slice of fresh bread with butter and jam. There we are! Will you carry up the tray for me, there's a love? My knee hasn't been the same since I fell in the Marylebone Road last winter. When we're done with this, we'll start on the laundry."

Lucy picked up the tray, which felt as if it might topple from her hands at the smallest misstep. Together, the woman and girl climbed the stairs to the floor above. At the entrance to the sitting room, Mrs Hudson took the tray from Lucy and proceeded to the table, where a man in a light brown tweed suit was seated. He had fair hair, feathered with grey, and a moustache a little darker in colour. A pair of spectacles sat on the end of his nose as he looked up at Mrs Hudson. Before him lay a wooden box with a panel that opened out from it. A quantity of papers was strewn across the white tablecloth.

Lucy remained standing in the shadow of the threshold while the Doctor and Mrs Hudson spoke. They conversed in low tones and she could not make out what they were saying, but she noticed the open expression on the Doctor's face as he spoke. Not at all stern or cramped as Lucy had imagined a gentlemen's face would look when addressing a member of his household. She could not help gazing into the room, at the pictures and objects of various kinds that were littered about. The books. She had never seen so many in one place. Shelves of them that stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes of every size. Some were battered, others new. Some were stored upright, while many were shoved in haphazardly onto the tops of their brethren. 

Mrs Hudson had said that Mr Holmes could make a terrible mess when he chose, but the place looked straightforward enough. Lucy did not think either Mr Holmes or Dr Watson could rival her four brothers for carelessness with their things. Some day she would be entrusted with cleaning this room, she thought, a little awed at the prospect. Her eye lit on the hearthrug, a fearsome creature's head rising from its surface, giving her a fixed stare. Her mouth opened at the sight of it.

"Lucy, my dear?" Mrs Hudson was calling to her. "Come and be introduced to Dr Watson."

Unsteady in her new boots, the girl stepped forward as bravely as she could, her back straight, her straw-coloured braids, bound and pinned, heavy against the collar of her new uniform.

"Lucy, a pleasure to meet you, I'm Dr Watson. How do you do?" The Doctor had risen from his chair and was observing her, an expectant expression upon his face. Lucy looked to Mrs Hudson for confirmation and then bobbed a curtsey at him. "We're glad to have you with us. And I hope you are comfortable here." 

"Thank you, sir," Lucy whispered. She chastised herself for being so shy and spoke a little more loudly. "I hope to be of service to you and Mr Holmes, sir. And to Mrs Hudson." She glanced again at the woman, and made another curtsey to the Doctor for good measure.

"Very good. Well, if you'll excuse me, my editor has lost all patience with me and if I don't meet his deadline quite soon, he'll never accept another manuscript from me again. Good morning," and the Doctor sat down, nudging his spectacles back into place on the bridge of his nose and hunching over his papers, immediately oblivious to the world.

Mrs Hudson showed Lucy around the house, taking her through its various rooms and indicating what must be attended to in each. She was not an unkindly lady, although she did seem to like talking very much. Several deliverymen stopped at the service entrance during the course of the day, and she chided them about some item or another that was not to her liking. But she appeared to know all about their lives and those of their families, too, and inquired after them with genuine solicitude.

At last they came to the front hall, and Mrs Hudson explained how it should be cleaned and on what schedule. "This area will be your charge, Lucy. Tomorrow morning, I'd like you to wash this floor and I'll have a look at it to make sure it's been done properly. 

"Since you're to see to the front hall, you'll also be responsible for answering the door. Remember that you must always be sure to set aside your broom, like so, and wipe your hands first, even if Mr Holmes should be demanding that you hurry. When you open the door, curtsey to the caller, ask for his name and take his card, if he hands you one. Offer to take his coat and hang it up in the closet here, like so. Then lead him up to the sitting room and give Mr Holmes or Dr Watson the card. Under no circumstances should you ask a caller any questions besides his name and if he has an appointment. Especially if it's the elder Mr Holmes, our Mr Holmes's brother. He's a great, bulky man who rarely visits Baker Street. But if he does happen to pay a call, you must come find me immediately, do you hear?"

Lucy nodded, solemn. She wondered if she should ever be able to live up to the house and its demands. She had been told that Mr Holmes was a very important man and she did not want to disappoint him. For a moment, her trepidations overwhelmed her and her eyes watered. 

Now she sat at the desk, in the room that had been given her upstairs, while she darned the kitchen cloths that Mrs Hudson had given her before dismissing her for the day. "We'll finish early, my dear. You've had a long day, and we've lots to do tomorrow. I plan to show you how the shopping lists are made. You'll be busier than you could ever imagine, before you know it. So rest up now while you can!"

It was stiflingly hot in the little room, even after she had thrown open its single window. Her nightshirt felt thick and heavy around her thin frame. At home, there was always a breeze in the bedroom that she shared with her sisters. From below she heard a strange noise that stopped her in her stitching work. It sounded for an instant like an animal that had been trapped. Then she recognised it for a fiddle that was being played, although no music came from it. The sawings were almost painful. But then a melody leapt forth. The sawing returned. Melody, sawing, melody, sawing. Lucy sat entranced, until the musician finished abruptly. That must be Mr Holmes. Mrs Hudson had told her that he owned a violin, which should on no account and under any circumstance be touched. 

Lucy turned out the light and sat on the edge of her bed. She let her slippers drop to the floor and eased her body between the tightly tucked sheets. Baker Street. London. Mum. Lizzy. Dan. Bill. Mary. Jim. Abby. Dear little Georgie. She mouthed each of their names to herself in turn, and began her prayers. It felt strange to say them in this new and foreign place. She would write Mum tomorrow, and relay all of the events of her first day. In her mind, Lucy looked out at the view from her room at home, onto dusty green fields. She remembered the chickens clucking quietly to themselves as they searched for food in the near yard. How the scent of the blossoms from the towering linden tree would waft in, filling the air with its familiar beauty. 

From below, here in Baker Street, another scent drifted up to her, overlaying the one from memory. It was the smell of coffee, freshly brewed. The Doctor must be at his writing again. Bourbon Santos, Medium Dark, Lucy thought. She closed her eyes and slept.


End file.
